


leave a light on

by GarnetAles



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, Billy being self-deprecating, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Neil Hargrove Being an Asshole, Neil Hargrove's A+ Parenting, Steve's Battle Stance, he calls himself a pussy at one point, like all but explicit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-31
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-04-16 03:09:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14155359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GarnetAles/pseuds/GarnetAles
Summary: They make eye contact over the heated, lighted pool. Harrington just stares. Billy blinks, looks away first. Can’t look up. Every light in the house is on. Looks down. Feels his knees begin to quiver. Plants his feet. He cannot fall here.Steve moves to get up, swings the bat towards the ground, close enough for the nails to scrape. Billy watches as he turns his back to Billy, to the woods. Walks inside without a glance, bat loose in his hands.He leaves the door open. Wide open on its hinges. Doesn’t look back.orA series of instances where Billy is a guest at the Harrington residence until the day he is not.





	leave a light on

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Doggomighty (HappilyOblivious)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HappilyOblivious/gifts).



> So this story (and its title) are loosely based of the song Leave a Light On by Tom Walker. The first time I heard it I just had the urge to write, something that hasn't happened in a few years. The idea that Steve has to keep the lights on for his own reasons and draws Billy in moth-to-the-flame style would not leave me alone until I wrote it and then, as stories do, it grew legs. 
> 
> Enjoy!

The first time:

Billy is stumbling, leaving a trail of blood along the bark of trees, the only support he can find these days. The dark is swallowing his despair, his rage, his pain. He has been staggering along long enough to be lost. There are no lights in sight and the full moon is hidden behind clouds. The rough bark catches on Billy’s palm, a branch on his cheek. He can feel the sting for a fleeting moment before that fades too, absorbed into the darkness. The damp ground has long since soaked the cotton beneath his feet and the numbness is starting to creep up his legs. 

Finally, his knees give. Give in, give out, give up. 

He catches himself on the leaf litter, the grit mixes with the blood on his palms, his arms. Pinpricks of pain break through the clouds as the sticks and stems and stones dig in, join the slivers of glass under his skin. 

Billy knows he cannot close his eyes, must stay awake, must stay alert. No one else is there, but that doesn’t mean no one is coming. 

Billy also knows he cannot stay here. Standing still is a magnet to the hands, fists, words. 

Lurching to his feet, using the trees, his very own safety net. Once up, he almost goes down again, but the branches and brush catch him, steady him on his feet, budding leaves brush his back and brow in apology. 

Billy doesn’t know what direction he came from and so chooses the clearest path he can see. Feeling ebbs in his feet, pain and prickling, anesthetized and atrophic. 

Must keep moving. Can’t go on.

He hears it first. The wind has picked up and carries with it the lap of water. It comes from his left and without thought, Billy turns towards it. The darkness is overpowering. His foot catches a tree root, his hand snags a branch. More aching, more dirt. 

Billy opens his eyes. When had he closed them? In between the trees, lights shine like beacons. Too many lights to be his house, too many, too big.

The trees are thinning. Their protection being rescinded. The lights are brighter the closer Billy gets. He shields his eyes.

There is a figure seated on the porch steps of the house. They are holding a bat. Billy would recognize that bat anywhere. 

Harrington. 

They make eye contact over the heated, lighted pool. Harrington just stares. Billy blinks, looks away first. Can’t look up. Every light in the house is on. Looks down. Feels his knees begin to quiver. Plants his feet. He cannot fall here.

Steve moves to get up, swings the bat towards the ground, close enough for the nails to scrape. Billy watches as he turns his back to Billy, to the woods. Walks inside without a glance, bat loose in his hands. 

He leaves the door open. Wide open on its hinges. Doesn’t look back. The light from inside cuts through the yard, blends with the pool.

Unlocking his knees, Billy edges his way around the water. Stumbles his way up the three steps. Approaches the door. 

Can’t stop. Can’t be still.

Billy goes inside. 

 

The second time:

Billy managed to grab his keys in his flight from the house. He can still feel the hands of his father, in his hair, on his back. Jumping off the porch, stumbling into his car, yanking the door open.

At the sound of the engine, the front door opens but Billy is already gone.

The roar of the Camaro under his feet, vibrating his seat is soothing. He swipes the back of his hand under his nose, gasps at the slice of pain in his face and studiously ignores the streak of dark over his knuckles, highlighted by the crescent moon.

The roads are empty. No surprise. Hawkins is a town complicit in its own death. 

Taking corners too fast, Billy doesn’t know where he is going. Anywhere is better than here. He knows that he must avoid the main roads, can’t afford to be stopped for any reason. Too many questions.

Winding through neighborhoods, Billy lets the rumble of his engine, the echo of it against quiet houses, drown out his thoughts. 

He can feel hot drops leaving trails down his cheeks. He lets himself believe they are blood. 

Finally, Billy’s car turns into a neighborhood he now recognizes as Harrington’s, knows that is where he was heading all along. 

When he passes the drive the first time, he can’t make himself pull in. It is too close to asking for help. Billy does not need help. 

(He knows he does.)

The house is glowing through the trees and Billy can’t make his hands move. 

On his second pass Billy wants what he can’t have. He wants Harrington to come save him. Hold a compress to his face. Catch his tears. God, he is such a pussy. 

On Billy’s third pass of the house, Harrington is standing at the end of the driveway, no shoes, wrapped in a blanket. 

He stops. Harrington approaches the passenger door. Tries the handle, finds it unlocked, slides into the seat next to Billy. Barely glances at him before gesturing towards the lit house.

Billy turns down the driveway, turns the Camaro off, turns away from Harrington. 

Billy nearly flinches when he feels the fingertips trace the bloodstain across his knuckles. Refuses to look at him.

“Come inside Billy.” 

The words are followed by the sound of the car door opening and Harrington’s blanket-shrouded silhouette walking back to the house. 

Billy drops his head onto the steering wheel and knows he has no other options. On a different night he might have been willing to admit that he didn’t want any other options, but Billy didn’t deserve nice things and if he wanted something, it inevitably got ripped away.

Billy follows Steve inside. 

 

The fifth time:

Billy can feel a single line of blood making its way down his face. The sound of his boots on the pavement makes Billy wish for the squeal of tires, the growl of an engine. But, no keys. 

Neil had plucked the Camaro’s keys from the bedside table on his way out of Billy’s room, carnage in his wake. Billy’s mirror lay in pieces, shattered outward from where Billy’s forehead had made contact. 

A thin cut runs along his hairline, leaking red, and Billy keeps walking. 

Neil chose a house outside of a neighborhood for its perks: no nosy neighbors, no other houses close enough to hear yelling or glass breaking. But damn, did it make Billy’s life harder. The nearest phone not inside the Hargrove residence or their immediate neighbors is almost half a mile down the road, located outside one of Hawkins’ two bars. 

By the time it comes into view, Billy is holding his sleeve to the cut in an effort to keep the blood from his eyes. 

He keeps his head down as he approaches, can hear the laughter and chatter of drunk men from inside the bar and wants nothing to do with it tonight. His hands do not shake as they slide in a few coins and dial the only number Billy knows with a Hawkins’ area code. 

It is late enough that Harrington should sound tired when he picks up, but the “hello?” that comes through the phone is alert and sharp. 

Billy pauses a moment, is he actually asking _Harrington_ for help? 

(Yes.)

“Can you come pick me up? I’m outside O’Reilly’s.”

“Billy?” Harrington sounds surprised, as though he didn’t expect Billy to actual use the number Steve had given him. Maybe it had just been an empty gesture. God, he was an idiot.

“Nevermind, Harrington.” Billy layered his words with malice, “Didn’t mean to interrupt your beauty sleep.” Goes to slam the phone back on the hook, just manages to hear Harrington’s shouts of protest.

“Billy! Billy, wait! Don’t hang up! I’m coming, I’m coming. Don’t move!” Harrington suddenly sounds out of breath. When Billy doesn’t respond Steve quietly adds, “Please don’t leave before I get there.”

Billy clenches his jaw; cannot believe the situations he finds himself in. He sighs loudly before hanging up the phone. 

Settling away from the bar door, Billy pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket and lights one up while he waits. Flicks the lighter on and off and on again.

When the Beemer finally appears, visible under the street light thirty yards past the bar, Billy regrets all over again. How stupid of him to let Harrington pick him up in public, in front of a place where Neil’s buddies are probably drinking right this instant. If someone recognizes him, tells Neil, Billy is dead.

He walks, away from the bar, in the direction of the Beemer before it even nears the parking lot. The farther away from the bar this pick up happens, the better. 

Harrington seems to understand and pulls his car to the shoulder, lets Billy come to him. 

Billy, one hand still pressed to his forehead and lit cigarette dangling from his lips, pulls the Beemer door open with act of casual confidence. Doesn’t know what to say, stays silent.

He risks a glance at Harrington and has to look away immediately, can’t bear to interpret pity from Steve’s expression. 

They sit in silence for a minute before Harrington starts his car and drives home. 

This time he waits for Billy to exits the car before walking to the door, guides Billy through the door first.

Billy ignores Harrington’s hand when it brushes his back.

 

The eighth time:

Billy is avoiding his house. Driving late, will make some excuse when he returns about a girl or a party or a goddamn tornado. It won’t matter, the bruises will come either way.

It’s just, Billy had been ready to hit back, when his dad got in his face earlier, and Billy had been there, done that, got the scars. So, he left.

Hawkins is a great town to circle if one wants to have a nice, quiet, introspective think. This is, of course, the last thing Billy wants. Thinking leads to wanting things that won’t ever happen.

Billy has been driving for at least an hour when he sees headlights, high beams, in his rearview. He sighs. It’s the first car he has seen in about twenty minutes, getting late enough for no traffic on the smaller roads. He can’t tell with the headlights if it is a cop or an idiot. Billy wants nothing to do with either. 

He takes a turn onto a service road for the old quarry. A road teenagers use as a hook up point and would probably be busy if it weren’t a Tuesday night. It is deserted. 

In the distance, the car turns down the road as well. 

Billy huffs. 

Billy knows this road dead-ends around the next turn, would rather have a place to turn around if he needs to squeal out of here. So he waits. 

The car pulls up behind him, about twenty feet back and stops too. No police lights flick on, no doors open. 

This show down lasts for a few minutes. 

Finally, Billy has had enough. Cigarette clenched between his lips, his feet hit the ground with a thud. Still blinded by the headlights he marches towards the car. 

The driver’s door opens but no one leaves the vehicle. 

Billy lets his eyes adjust, doesn’t look at the lights and, keeping a few feet between him and the car, stalks past the too bright headlights.

He recognizes the car immediately.

“Harrington?” The sound of his own voice surprises him. It rasps slightly from disuse.

Harrington doesn’t respond, driver’s side door still open and Billy approaches, more cautious now.

Steve is sitting perfectly still, one hand in his lap, the other resting on the handle of the nail bat, which is draped across the passenger seat and center console, nails down in the foot well, away from the leather. His face is upturned in Billy’s direction. His expression is open, and Billy almost wants to step back from the anxiety written on it.

“Hey, Billy,” Harrington responds. His voice is also thick from abandonment. His hand stays on the bat. “What are you doing out here?”

Billy chuffs. “I think a better question is why did you follow me here?” 

Harrington sighs. Drops his head. Says, “The truth?” into his lap. At Billy’s affirmative, continues, “My house is too big and too empty. So I left and then I saw your car, and, I just, I don’t want to be alone.” His shoulders hunch in as he talks, afraid of Billy’s reaction, probably.

“So, you thought ‘why not just follow Billy,' like a creep, or worse a cop, and give me-” Billy cuts himself off. Turns away from Harrington, can’t look at him, afraid he will see the lie, the relief, the desire. 

Harrington’s fingers brush against Billy’s wrist and Billy looks back at him. Steve’s eyes are wet. “I’m sorry I scared you,” he apologizes.

Billy immediately argues, “You didn’t fucking scare me!” Steve looks down again. Billy takes a breath, “It’s fine. Just, next time, like flash your lights or something.”

“Next time?”

Billy snorts derisively, can’t deal with this tonight, turns to leave but Steve’s fingers curl around his wrist. 

Billy turns back to him, ready to throw words, or punches, to get Harrington off of him. But, Harrington has stood up. Harrington is right there. In his space, breathing his air. And the words catch in Billy’s throat.

They both breath for a moment. A too long moment this close to each other. Steve has still not let go of his wrist. He says, quietly, into the space between them, “Please, don’t leave me alone.” 

Billy looks up to meet his eyes, looks away from his lips and Steve’s eyes are already there, had caught where his gaze was, fuck fuck fuck! But Steve isn’t moving away either. And there is that pesky hope.

Steve tugs on his wrist, guides Billy’s hand to his own waist. Billy hasn’t breathed since Steve spoke. Steve gently lets go of his wrist, and Billy leaves his hand where it is. Slowly, Steve brings his hands up towards Billy’s face, lightly brushes his jaw, and then leans forward and kisses him.

Billy is shocked. Too shocked to move or breathe or respond. Steve pulls away too soon, too fucking soon, and the words are already tumbling out of his mouth, ‘sorry’s and ‘forget it’s. He goes to step out of Billy’s grip and Billy can’t have that.

“Shut up, Harrington,” he interrupts, and presses against him, pushes him back against the Beemer. Presses their lips back together. Steve makes a noise, deep in his throat, surprise or pleasure. Billy doesn’t stop to check.

They spend too long pushed against the Beemer’s back door. Steve’s hands are in Billy’s hair, a privilege Steve probably doesn’t appreciate as much as he should. 

(He does, actually.) 

Billy finally pulls back, because he remembers that this is a stupid thing to be doing in an open, if secluded, place. 

“Harrington, we can’t do this here.” Billy interrupts Steve’s surge forward for more contact with a hand to the chest. 

Steve slumps back against his car and makes a noise of displeasure, reaches up and catches Billy’s hand as it falls from his chest. “Fine,” he concedes and with the same breath asks, all in a rush, “follow me home?” 

Billy still doesn’t want to go home. Never really wants to go home, would much rather make out with a cute boy, if he’s honest. 

“Sure.”

 

The twelfth time:

Billy slides his window open as quietly as he can, careful of the sticky section on the left side. 

The burn of his ribs from raising his arms almost makes him reconsider. But the color of the bruising worries him, not sure if it can take any more kicks. Neil hadn’t seemed finished when he left Billy’s room half an hour ago. Billy can’t trust that if he needs to go to the hospital, he will get taken. Doctors ask a lot of questions. 

He curses under his breath at the thump of his feet hitting the flowerbeds and doesn’t bother to close his bedroom window behind him. If his dad finds his room empty, he is fucked either way. It’s a nice enough night out, they shouldn’t notice a draft.

Using the slight decline of the driveway to his advantage, Billy coasts down the pavement until his car stops rolling and he has to risk turning on the engine. The rumble comforts him but sometimes he wishes he had a quieter car. 

The drive to Harrington’s isn’t as quiet as usual. Billy passes enough cars that, if he were an anxious person, he would worry about someone seeing something and saying something to his father about where he was headed. But Billy is not an anxious person.

When he gets to Harrington’s he parks behind the Beemer, so the Camaro is at least partially hidden from the street. 

Harrington is outside before the engine turns off, bat in hand, in what Billy likes to call his battle stance. Ready to take on anything, Steve and that goddamn bat. 

Billy gets out of the car and greets Harrington with a squeeze of the hip. Enters the house first because some nights Harrington needs to be the follower. 

 

The second to last time:

Billy can’t breathe through his nose. This is the first thing Billy registers, the terrible taste in his mouth and the fact that he can’t breathe through his nose when he tries to swallow the taste away. The taste is blood, he realizes after a second, partially clotted.

He forces his eyes open and immediately wants to close them because of the overhead light. One eye, painful and swollen, barely lets in a sliver of the room. His other eye, pressed to the floor, at least feels better. 

He pushes himself off the ground, catching himself when he puts weight on his right hand. It twinges uncomfortably. Beside his hands there is a blood stain from his lip or eye or something on the carpet now.

Billy stumbles to his door, listens for a minute before determining that he is the only one home. His dad must have fucked off after Billy stopped responding.

He needs to get out of this house. He can’t drive, not with the eye and the hand. He can’t walk, too afraid his dad will pass him on his way back to the house. If Billy gets pushed into a ditch, no one will ever find him.

He has one option. 

(He has two, but the second one is the cops and that is just laughable.)

Billy has already decided to take his out by the time he reaches the phone. 

Steve picks up on the second ring, as alert and ready as ever. 

Billy doesn’t greet him before asking, the words almost familiar now, “Can you come pick me up?”

“Of course, where are you?” Steve responds immediately. 

“Still at my house, he left. I can’t drive, my wrist is all fucked up.” Billy hesitates, “Listen, I don’t know when he will be back, so if his car is in the driveway, just keep driving. I’ll be fine.”

“Billy, I’m not gonna just-” he starts to protest, but Billy cuts him off.

“Yes, Steve, you are. Because I don’t need my dad-” and then Billy gets cut off by a quiet, questioning voice repeating Steve’s name from behind Billy.

Billy whips around, making his head spin and the phone cord wrap around his torso, to face Max, “Fuck, don’t scare me like that!”

Steve’s tinny voice comes through the phone “Billy, who is that? Are you okay?” 

It is mostly drowned out by Max’s “What the hell happened to your face?”

Billy turns back towards the wall to hide his face from Max before responding, “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just Max.” 

“Okay. I’m gonna hang up now, so that I can head over.” Steve stops, breathes for a second, “Be there?”

“Of course,” Billy assures. 

When he places the phone back on the receiver, Billy twists back towards Max, hoping she might be gone. 

She isn’t.

“Were you just talking to Steve? My friend Steve? Steve Harrington?” She doesn’t pause before continuing, “And what happened to your face? You look terrible.”

“Max, I don’t have time to talk to you right now.” Billy brushes past her, hopes she won’t follow.

She does.

Billy heads back towards his room and starts packing a bag. Clothes. School books. 

When he sits down on his bed to tie his boots, he notices Max in the doorway, staring.

Exacerbated, Billy huffs out, “What?”

Max replies, “What are you doing? Why were you talking to Steve on the phone?”

Billy sneers. “Don’t worry about it. I’m not breaking our deal.” Their deal, like Billy had had a choice in the matter.

“Why are you packing a bag?”

“What’s with the twenty questions? Fuck off, Maxine.”

Billy finishes tying his shoes and grabs his bag, again pushes past Max (can’t she take a fucking hint) and stops dead in the hallway at the sound of a car door slamming in the driveway.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Billy repeats under his breath. Max protests when Billy pushes her out of his way with a quick “Move!” Goes back into his bedroom and hides the bag out of sight. He won’t be needing it tonight after all. 

Max, as angry as ever, mutters a quick, “Fuck you, Billy” before stomping down the hall towards the door.

Billy closes his door halfway, enough to keep his bed out of view of the hallway and then sits down and waits for the confrontation he is sure will come. Nowhere to run, or hide.

He can feel his knee starting to quiver in anxiety as the voices from the kitchen become more clear. Apparently, Susan and Neil had been shopping. 

Billy forces himself to still when he hears footsteps approach the hallway. As they grow louder, he holds his breath. When they pass his door without a pause Billy lets it go. And then he catches movement from the corner of his eye and he jumps as his gaze meets Steve’s through the window. 

Billy feels like he should feel shocked, but he doesn’t. He knew when he called Steve that he would be going home with him, that Steve would not let him stay here tonight, because Steve knows that Billy only asks for help about fifty percent of the times he should and the rest he just grinds his teeth and takes.

Steve is still staring at Billy and Billy can’t believe that he actually came up to Billy’s window (what is this star-crossed bullshit?) but he needs to not be here right now. If Neil sees him, he will know. Neil will immediately understand without question and he will pull Steve through that window, probably broken and jagged from his fist going through the glass, by Steve’s hair.

Billy can’t get off the bed, his legs won’t let him, but he motions to Steve to get down and wait a minute. And then Billy turns away from the window and waits and counts the seconds since he heard his dad pass on the way to the bathroom. 

When the toilet flushes Billy holds his breath again. Waits for the door to be pushed wide, counts the footsteps as they approach his door. They hesitate. Billy is so still he is shaking. Then shoes make contact with carpet and Billy counts the sounds until Neil is in the living room, out of the hallway. Then he finally lets himself shudder a breath and listens to the other noises in the house.

Susan is starting dinner in the kitchen, getting Max to help with something. The TV clicks on in the living room, one of those channels with lots of talking, probably the news. Billy hears the sound of the couch creak as a body settles into it.

Billy waits another minute, but nothing changes, TV running, Susan and Max chatting. He slowly stands up, cursing the bed springs, nudges the door closed, turning the knob so it won’t click, and picks up the backpack from where he had stashed it, half under the bed. He pads to the window and gently slides the window up, luckily able to push it with one hand. Billy checks over his shoulder before putting his head out the window and whispering Steve’s name into the dark.

Immediately Steve is there, appearing from below and to the left of the window, just barely in the shadows.

His eyes are shining in the light spilling from Billy’s bedroom lamp. “Oh, Billy,” he whispers, brushing a thumb across Billy’s cheekbone, underneath the swollen eye. “Baby.”

Billy clenches his jaw and looks away. He can’t deal with this right now, needs to leave before it is too late. 

“Steve, sweetheart, we have to go right now, if we’re going.” Billy turns quickly, checks over his shoulder again, listens for a moment, TV still on, less chatter from the kitchen. Steve makes an affirmative sound and steps back.

“C’mon, take this,” Billy practically throws his backpack at Steve, who catches it, prepared. He goes back to turn off the lamp, maybe no one will check on him with the light off, door closed.

Then Billy pulls himself through the window, careful of his wrist, before sitting on the sill. Just as he is twisting to jump down, his bedroom door clicks open.

Billy is almost afraid, caught in the act of sneaking out, one leg dangling from his window and the lessons he cannot seem to learn written across his face in multi-colored bruises. But when Billy turns to look, vitriol ready on the tip of his tongue, it is only Max.

She just stares at him. Billy glares right back, daring her to call out, give him away. 

Instead she pushes the door closed, though not latched, and whispers, voice sounding almost defeated, “Did Neil do that to your face?”

Billy hesitates before giving a short sharp nod. She purses her lips and gives one back, looks away. Billy glances at Steve just outside the window, crouched so that Max doesn’t see his stupid hair. At his gaze, Steve reaches up and wraps his fingers around Billy’s ankle. Billy appreciates the grounding.

“I’ll tell them your asleep.” At Max’s word, Billy looks back at her. He doesn’t know how to respond.

“I – thank you.” She nods firmly, chin jutting out in defiance.

“Tell Steve I said hi.”

Billy doesn’t know what to say to that either. “I – I will. Goodnight, Max.”

Max turns to leave and Billy slips out the window, using the door shutting to hide his feet hitting dirt. 

Steve is pressed, back to the house, ass in the dirt, Billy’s backpack on his lap. “We ready?” he asks, like every other Thursday night he is off galivanting like a white knight, saving the world and shit.

“Yes.”

“Follow me then.”

Steve leads them between lawns, hidden by the woods until they reach his car, parked well away from Billy’s house, or even Billy’s neighbor’s houses. 

They settle into the Beemer, Steve throwing Billy’s bag into the backseat over the center console and as he twists back to forward-facing Billy snags a hand through his hair and brings Steve’s face down to brush their lips together ever so gently. Less of a kiss than a reassurance. 

Steve pulls away first. “Let’s go. I want to get some ice on your everything before it is too late to do any good.”

Billy doesn’t have the heart to tell him that it had been hours since Billy had been beaten. Instead, he reaches over and twines his good hand, his left hand, through Harrington’s right. Billy brings their joined hands up to his lips and whispers against the delicate skin on the back of Steve’s hand, “Thank you for coming.”

Steve doesn’t respond, not really, but he won’t let Billy pull his hand away until they reach the Harrington residence and they have to separate to exit the car.

Steve grabs Billy’s bag before Billy is even out of the passenger seat and leads the way to the front door. But he veers off before the reach they big oak door, instead choosing to lean against the porch railing. Billy follows more slowly, eye still swollen and wrist throbbing, looking forward to the ice inside. His interest is peaked, however, when Steve pulls out a carton of cigarettes, shakes one loose.

Steve lights it with only slightly shaking fingers and Billy reaches out and brushes his elbow with his fingertips. “Hey, share with me?” 

After a drag or two, Steve silently hands it over. 

Billy is pulling in the first smoky breath (god, the nicotine rush) when Steve turns around, suddenly in Billy’s space. He plucks the cigarette from between Billy’s lips and says with all his rich boy, well-meaning bullshit, “You can’t ever go back there.”

Billy had been half-heartedly trying to get back the cigarette until those words fell from Steve’s lips. “I can’t what?”

“Go back there, live in that house.”

“Yeah, Steve, where else am I going to live?”

“Here.” And that pulls Billy up short, directly out of his readying debate about the good (food, roof, running water) and the bad (bruises, broken bones sometimes).

“Here?” he questions.

“Of course.”

Steve’s quiet confidence doesn’t even give Billy time to consider. His mouth just says the word.

“Okay.”

 

The last time:

Billy and Steve pull up in the Beemer. Billy had planned the timing to the letter, with the help of Max. 

Neil will be gone for another hour, maybe hour and half if the poker game runs long.

As they approach, they pass the Camaro. Billy’s baby. He trails his fingers along the hood. He is really going to miss that car. But it can’t be helped. He didn’t buy it. 

Max is there to open the door for them, startling Susan from her spot at the table, reading a book or a – actually, Billy doesn’t really care. 

He dares her to say something, anything as he and Steve pass on the way to his room, armed with two boxes and a roll of trash bags. She doesn’t, of course, guilty enough to know she was in the wrong. 

When they finally reach his room, he pauses in the threshold. His window is closed but other than that, it is exactly how he had left it three days ago. Blood stain and all. Steve immediately starts shoving clothes into trash bags, taking shirts and pants out of the closet, folding them in half to keep the hangers from breaking through the plastic.

Billy takes one of the boxes and starts packing his cassettes and the few books from school he had liked enough to keep. From under his mattress he pulls out the two pictures he has of his mom, one cut from a high school year book, the other from the day Billy was born. He tucks them snuggly into one of the hardbacks for safekeeping. 

He stares at the box long enough to miss Susan coming to stand in the doorway. Steve’s movements abruptly stop, which clue Billy in. He looks up and she is standing there, shoulders hunched, purposefully not blocking the doorway, not blocking his escape. She is holding something in her hands, an envelope. 

“What?” Billy barks at her, too impatient for the silence. They do not have time for her to stand there quietly. Every minute counts.

She holds out the paper for him to take. “It was for your birthday.” His birthday isn’t for another three weeks. The question must show on his face. “I got it early. Figured you might still want it.”

He doesn’t know what to do – what to say to that. He settles for “Thank you,” as he reaches out for the envelope.

She nods swiftly and retreats, back to her bedroom presumably. 

They make quick work of the rest of Billy’s things. He doesn’t have much, what he brought to Hawkins was heavily monitored and regulated. All of his childhood toys and keepsakes had been trashed to make room for Max and Susan’s things. He doesn’t pause to survey the room before they leave. The only thing left is the furniture and the poster of the girl in the bikini. He had only ever hung it for his dad’s benefit.

Cleaning out the Camaro takes even less time, which is more depressing because Billy had lived a lot more life in this car than that house. It comes down to a packet of cigarettes, some more tapes and a single bottle of whiskey lifted from a party months earlier.

Max helps them carry stuff out to the Beemer, and, standing by Steve’s car, Billy carefully curls an arm around her shoulders. 

“Thank you for helping me.” They are both stony faced. “If he ever tries anything -”

“Don’t worry,” Max cuts him off, “He won’t. If he does, he is going to have problems bigger than he knows what to do with.”

Billy is sure that Max thinks her scrawny group of friends could cause real damage, but, c’mon. “Just promise me, that you will tell -”

“Okay. I promise.” 

He takes a step back after a moment, not sure if he believes her but having no choice and reaches into his pockets. He pulls out the Camaro’s key and gently hands it to Max. “Could you just put that on the table inside for me?”

“Of course.”

“Thanks, Max.”

“Don’t mention it.” Their eyes meet one last time and then she turns back towards the house, doesn’t wait for them to drive away before heading inside.

Steve reaches out for Billy from his place leaning against the car, wraps fingers around Billy’s wrist, the one still tender from earlier in the week.

“Let’s go home?” he asks gently.

“Yeah.”

Once they are on the road back to Steve’s, Billy remembers the birthday gift from Susan. He reaches around in the backseat until he unearths the box with the books in it and pulls out the envelope. 

What he pulls from the small white business envelope makes Billy crow with joy and surprises Steve enough for him to jerk the wheel on accident. 

“What? What is it?” Steve is desperate to know what could make Billy so happy.

“Tickets to see Mötley Crüe in June!” Billy caws again, and then suddenly turns to Steve. “Hey babe.”

“Yeah?” Steve asks warily.

“You want to go see Mötley Crüe with me?”

“Of course, I would love to go.”

“Then it’s settled. It’s a date.” Billy leers at Steve, wags his tongue a little, exuberant now.

When they reach Steve’s house, they each grab a bag of things and head for the door, but before Steve can push it open, Billy drops his bag and reaches for Steve’s shirt. Pulls him in by a hand on the hem. 

Billy presses their foreheads together and whispers in the quiet space between them, “Thank you, for all of this.” Steve starts to protest but Billy shushes him. “No, Steve, you don’t get it. I didn’t ever actually think that would I make it out of my father’s house alive. And now I have, because of you. So, thank you.” 

Steve sighs gently and then tilts forward and presses a kiss to Billy’s cheek, takes a half step back, and holding Billy’s gaze, whispers back, “I love you.”’

Billy doesn’t freeze, not really. It is more of a muscle spasm, before he is falling into Steve, lips pressing against his lips, cheeks, chin, all the while murmuring “I love you too.”

Pushing Steve lightly against the door, Billy works his way down Steve’s neck while also searching for the door knob. Finally, Billy finds the thing (who needs a door this big, honestly) and presses Steve inside. He goes willing. The bags can wait.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm also on tumblr @garnetales. Feel free to drop me a line any time.


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